Month: March 2018

so i’ve had my fair share of phases in my life, as i assume we all have. i’m sure everyone had that weird random phase from 4th to 6th grade (somewhere around that window). i went through a period of really hating justin bieber and one direction. i had a big thing for american girl magazines and making stuff out of duct tape for a little while. really had a thing for zebra print at some point in time? also: there was a pretty big window where i was obsessed with charles schulz’s peanuts cartoons, particularly snoopy and woodstock (the snoopy shirts infect my closet to this day).

my phases have been… questionable, to say the least.

but where my phases really kick it into first gear is middle school.

see, 6th grade was pretty innocent. i was hangin’ out, doin’ my thing, just bein’ a weird 11-year-old on the tail-end of her snoopy-&-woodstock days. i really loved the beatles (the only positive residue from 4th grade), still wore clothes from justice, and thought i was très cool with my new side bangs AND glasses AND pierced ears. this was also the point at which i was introduced to a little sci-fi show called doctor who by my gifted teacher and quickly fell in love. it was absolutely disgusting, but mostly harmless.

then we get to 7th grade. this is where things really go downhill. see, this is the year i became simultaneously obsessed with sherlock, which was already a mistake (however, i still love this show and watch it with my dad so any poking fun at it and we’re gonna tussle). this was also the time i discovered panic! at the disco, dan and phil, and some other stuff that i’m most likely repressing. i was also introduced to some band called fall out boy by one of my friends i had art class with, and yall already know where this is going.

the summer before 8th grade (and just the rest of 8th grade) was full of bad decisions – GO TO JAIL GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL DO NOT PASS GO DO NOT COLLECT $200 GO TO JAIL decisions. but somehow, i pulled through. and fell straight into black skinny jeans. this was when my chemical romance and muse became staples in my itunes library, along with the bands discovered the previous school year, and also when i generally just said really dumb things to people because i was in such a terrible mental state that i couldn’t register how to be a not-stupid human being. however, about halfway through 8th grade, i had a Transformation. i went from emo, black-sweater wearing, hipster-despising weirdo to pastel, flower-crown wearing, sweater-loving weirdo. i mean, the weirdo part stuck around because i was genuinely just WEIRD in middle school, but it was definitely a 180. this was also about the time i first started talking to my best friend, and god bless her for sticking around after that atrocity.

i used to pride myself on being “not like other girls” (barf), being one of those ~edgy~ alternative kids. i refused to listen to bands like arctic monkeys or the 1975 (lol). i thought the perks of being a wildflower was the most pompous, contrived movie/book franchise i’d ever heard of in my life. come 8th grade, however, i was laying in my bed with tears ROLLING down my face as i held a torrent of the movie on my phone screen, singing in between sobs WE CAN BE HEROES *sniff* JUST FOR ONE DAY *cough*. 8th grade was a hot mess and a half, but it spurred the transition from disgusting emo kid to disgusting pretentious hipster.

and with the end of that, we have high school. that’s a wild ride for another time.

In the beginning I was unaware of everything around me. I was what a ‘woke’ person would call “sheeple”, a person who acts like sheep, following what they’re told and waiting for the slaughter. When I first learned of being “woke” I was completely astonished. It was a surprise to learn that most of what I’d been told or taught was not true. At the start of my research I started with listening to conscious music, rappers such as Ab-soul, Kendrick Lamar, and Capital Steez who more or less preached about institutionalized racism, overcoming stereotypes pinned on African Americans/African(s). In the process of becoming conscious I’ve learned about feminism, misogyny (the dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women), and hatred towards interracial and same sex couples. I’ve diverged from my old self, the immature, naive, and ever so lost in the world me. I no longer speak badly of others, make racial jokes, or act the role of a stereotypical “light-skinned girl”

While learning about misogyny I’ve discovered many cases, including the ever so on going rape crimes. Misogyny is simply hate towards women, which I believe stemmed from men (and women’s) youth. Starting with mothers, or a lack of, the hatred towards and/or for women come from the lack of love only a mother could give. Misogyny is more common in the Middle East than anywhere else. People there tend to treat their women like less than human. The animals are valued there more than females.

In becoming conscious I also have learned about Buddhism, which is my philosophy. The Golden Rule being “Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful” (Udana-Varga 5:18). While practicing Buddhism I have learned to turn all my negative energy into positive behavior. Buddhism is a way of life that I’m glad I’ve come across.

Overall, becoming conscious has turned me into a more mature and understanding person. I no longer make racial jokes or pick on others because of their differences. My consciousness has allowed me to see the world differently, in a new and brighter light, I am no longer a small child who knows no better, I am a young adult who is aware of the world around her.

I’m awkward. You may not see that physically and neither do I, but I can feel it. That slight change in dynamic that makes me want to run. But running is useless. We both know that. I could run to the edge of the earth and jump off and somehow still end up in your room. It’s almost pathetic really the need to please. Then again, it’s my pride that gets in the way and it’s my will to defend. But who am I defending if I’m not defending you? I want to be with you and no I don’t mean in a way that’s romantic, maybe. I mean in a way that’s friendly. I want to be able to go to your room and know for a certainty that you were thinking about me before I stepped in. I know you used to watch the door. Waiting for me to walk through it to tell me your newest dream. The new gossip. What’s up for that day. Your problems and your sudden need to not be on this planet for a minute or two. How you would call when you couldn’t find me or “somehow” go to the places you knew I would be. I realized once I came back my presence became almost natural. Like falling into line, we continued, shaking off the rust and going back to what we called natural. The absurd thing is that I bought you flowers. Cheap, plastic, white flowers. For that one thing you told me you liked. That’s stupid really it is, but what else what I supposed to do? You like adventure and I wanted you to give that. I wanted you to receive the familiar pang of excitement. Last time you told me you were scared that you would die and this time you probably wouldn’t think that, but instead just have that feeling of happiness. You would smile and laugh that way you do when things are getting ridiculous and you love that ridiculousness. But I’m still hesitating, the flowers sit in my room untouched, useless. Why am I hesitating? Why does this scare me? Why did I get white ones, why not blue? The same blue that your hair was the first day we met. I should have made it sappy. But then again, I’m not doing it because I’m scared. I’m scared because of coincidences and they are white, so you can find them in the dark. I’ve planned really, I did. But they’re still collecting dust and I’m still trying to be better. Yesterday, you thought that I would leave, and you called me as if I was going to walk out and never turn back. And I did turn back, and you smiled. To think that me leaving would be the end of the world, so I’ll take that as you missed me too.

what do you do when your favorite flower becomes something you suddenly dread looking forward and seeing?
when you can only think of your mom and dad and distant family members telling you that you are blossoming into a “young lady” – a thing you never wanted to be in the first place – every single time you look at its petals?
what is there to do when the thing you once found absolute beauty in becomes a thing you grew to despise when you were eleven and have done so since?
when the petals are torn, falling away and no longer the stunning hue you have always admired?
what can you do when the stem has lost its coloring, and it doesn’t give you that feeling that you could never accurately describe with words any longer?
when the crimson-hue of the same type of flower starts to look like the mess you see during “that time of the month” that brings nothing but pain and quite a bit of hatred for being born the way you were?
who can you go to when the very thought of those things brings nothing but sudden sadness, unimaginable pain, and visions of an optimistic future that may never come?
when nothing seems to help you through the dark thoughts your favorite flower seems to drag along with it?
where can you go for peace when they scream at you how you will never be the thing you wish to be, only the “little girl” your parents want you to be?
when you know you will only continue to blossom until you have sprouted into the thing you were always told to be growing up and that you always knew you could never, truly be?
when no one and nothing seems to help with the forever-haunting presence of it, lurking in the very back of your mind and never ceasing to remind you of the times to come that you know could never go the way you want?
what remedies will be effective for the impending sense of disappointment whenever you look down to see those flowers or the things sitting on your chest that weigh what seems like a ton and make you ache all over with a terrible pain?
what do you do when roses become tampons?

A deer freezes in the bright of candle light,
mistaking it for a headlight. Flash those doe eyes
that will one day become marble, walk on hooves
that are yours today (as a keychain somewhere
salivates at the mouth, waiting to hang them),
take naps on car hoods that howl laughter
at deer crossing signs. But start running, little doe,
your dad’s antlers can’t save you forever. One day,
they will hang in the house whose grass you’ve grazed
your entire life.

A moth mistakes light for a savior, a lifesaver,
rushes in to catch flame, erratic behavior. Burns in the air,
surrounded by water vapor that will not help.
But do you remember those nights in the basement—
no lights, only fire between you and I—when we ate
each other’s clothes alive? I clipped your wing
that night. I don’t think you ever forgave me.
You wanted a brighter fire, longing for the savior
I could never be.

Be careful little bunny, grab carrot root for loot
but don’t mistake it for mean man’s boot. Rely on luck
from your foot, even though it will one day be chopped off
and sold as if it never belonged to you (how lucky
can it be?) Flaunt fur and kiss strangers, have babies
because you’re afraid of being alone. Bite my lip, peel it open
and fill it with bunny teeth so I can understand all of the words
you are too afraid to say.

I am truly exhausted. As an empowered black woman speaking for other empowered black women, I can say that I am tired. Tired of the neglect of my people, the disconnection between races, and the unappreciation from my male counterparts. I am dissatisfied and work entirely too hard to achieve equal rights for my black brothers and sisters to be treated like I am less than such, not only by white people, but my own kin. I cannot stress this enough: I AM IMPORTANT. I am a woman, I am a creator and a destructor. I can both build and break this society with the snap of my fingers. I hold the weight of the world on my shoulders and future generations within my body.

I go underappreciated and misunderstood each day that I walk this earth. And do you know what I get for speaking my mind? I get referred to as an angry black woman! Why must I, the supporter and back bone of this country, be called angry for giving only a piece of a larger part of my mind? My people are treated in a less than humane manner and here I am smiling in the face of by-passers, protesting, and marching for those who are considered less than equal. I have been hosed, bitten by dogs, and kicked out of several places for my race. But worse to come, you and your friends with your “white girl” jokes. Well hell, I’m just as black as you are! Excluding me from certain aspects within my own community because I’m lighter than most, where as I do more for you than half of the “real black” people in this state. Where do I stand in all of this you ask? In the forefront, because I refuse to stand to the side, back, or even middle of this chaos! I will lead. I will represent my people where everyone can witness it regardless of who accepts me and who does not. I will continue to strive for black excellence and racial unity in hopes that I live to see better days. My efforts may continue to go unrecognized but, in the end, it will be me, a part of a greater good, who changes this world for the better. I will rise each day and give my last breath to change and see to it that society sees African American citizens as equal counterparts. I will also use every bit of power in me so that black women are recognized for all that they are worth and given the credit they deserve, without being viewed as “the angry black woman”.

culture war // arcade fire

and so we have the final part of the suburbs (finally).

when i first started writing this series, i don’t think i realized how introspective i would have to be to write it, and i definitely don’t think i realized that it would turn into something completely different from my original intentions. now, i’m not entirely sure what my original intentions were, but they certainly weren’t ending up admitting that getting away from home isn’t always what you want it to be.

now, don’t get me wrong; i love msa a whole whole lot, but it’s not the home i wanted it to be. it’s a new place i have to find myself in, and that’s okay.

as a writer, the feelings of home and belonging have always been topics that i’ve wanted to write about. i love the idea of home being something that you have to feel rather than a place that you live in, and i’m sure that doesn’t go unnoticed in some of my pieces. at the same time, i’m also an innately nostalgic human being, and i write about that a lot as well. i love reminiscence and memories, and i love the writing that can come out of remembering.

the idea of suburbia being a feeling like home is to me came from when i first had the idea to write this series. i had just downloaded arcade fire’s entire discography, and i fell in love with “sprawl II”(i don’t think there was a single day in september i didn’t listen to that song AT LEAST twice). so i started to write a blog about it, and the idea for this series came to be.

if you haven’t noticed, each part of this series is paired with a song (or two). each part of this series is based in chronological order on arcade fire’s album, the suburbs. i tried writing for “sprawl II” and didn’t get very far, but i knew i still wanted to work on this idea of my life in a suburban small town. then i remembered this little song called “suburbia” by troye sivan (yes claire i listen to troye), and i knew what i wanted to do. i knew i wanted to capture the distinctions i have between living in the suburbs as a concrete location versus growing up in suburbia as an abstract state of mind.

so, i wrote it. and i’m pretty proud of it if you ask me. i wanted to write about where i’m from, and i wanted to write about how where i’m from has affected me. i wrote about the suburbs, and i learned that maybe my home isn’t as bad as i’d made it out to be.

and with that, i highly recommend that you all go listen to this beautiful album (i’ll be waiting here for you to tell me if you like it), and i hope you enjoyed the suburbs.

I was on Instagram yesterday and got an ad for something incredible LifeAid, a line of beverages that are all meant to be drunk at different times.  Before going any further, I feel that it’s important to make clear that I have tried none of these beverages, but regardless, I feel like there is a lot that I have to say about them.  LifeAid itself comes in a Lemon Spice flavor and is meant to be drunk at anytime of day.  Something that I find interesting about it is that one of the “key supplements” included in LifeAid is cayenne which I personally never would have thought would belong in a beverage other than a Bloody Mary perhaps.

Another beverage offered by the LifeAid brand is FitAid which comes in a non-specific “citrus” flavor.  It takes a clear step further in terms of extreme-ness compared to its original counterpart LifeAid.  The most extreme, recommended use of LifeAid is when doing yoga or shopping.  FitAid, however, is reccomended to be used when at the gym, hiking, biking, or running.  Like LifeAid, FitAid also includes a surprising spice in turmeric.

FitAid also has its own spin-off product known as FitAid Fuel which comes in a little pouch.  They are meant to be consumed either before or after working out.  From pictures on the website, they seem to come in two flavors, tart-apple banana and tangy-apple sweet potato.  I could see either of those tasting alright, but I think tangy-apple sweet potato would likely be the better of the two because the fall flavors would work well together.

The next beverage is FocusAid.  This is the first beverage under the LifeAid brand which was recommended to me.  This beverage is considerably less extreme than FitAid, but honestly, can any beverage compete with the extreme extremity of FitAid, the absolute most extreme drink in existence?  This beverage is one that I’d guess would be much more suited for my own lifestyle seeing as I live a very unextreme life and that one of the suggested uses of the beverage is when gaming which I do pretty often.  The other suggested uses are for at work and school which leaves this sounding like one of the nerdier drinks made by LifeAid.  The flavor of FocusAid is listed as “Fusion Tea” which could be really good or absolutely terrible.  Fusion Tea is a really nonspecific name, and it’s never said what exactly the tea is “fused” with.

Following the totally lame FocusAid for losers is the totally radical PartyAid for major Chads*.  PartyAid helps you to party hardcore nonstop.  Oh yeah!  It’s intended use is, of course, before, during, AND after you party.  It comes in an awesome berry flavor, and one of the key supplements is milk thistle which I completely genuinely think sounds really cool.   (I’m not sure what it is, but it definitely sounds really cool.)  Unfortunately, I do not party all that often, so I don’t see this particular beverage of being especially of use to me.  Either way, I’d really like to try it alongside all of the other ones.

The penultimate beverage from LifeAid is none other than TravelAid.  Assumably needless to say, TravelAid is recommended to be used when one travels.  Specifically, the drink’s function seems to be to defend against diseases that one might encounter on transport systems such as buses, planes, and trains.  The flavor of this beverage is “Ginger Ale” which I imagine would be alright.  (I have no strong opinions on ginger ale; it’s acceptable and little else.)  Like LifeAid, TravelAid also contains turmeric, but this surprises me less seeing as it is ginger ale flavored.  On second thought, turmeric in lemon spice makes just as much sense.  I’m less interested by this one than most of the others, honestly.  Nothing much really strikes me about it.  This, however, is very different compared to the final LifeAid beverage.

This final beverage is the one that I am most interested in and the reason that I chose to write a blog about these at all.  That drink is GolferAid.  I personally find it absolutely hilarious that there would exist a drink specifically for golfing of all things.  I’m not sure why I find it so funny, but I undeniably do.  GolferAid comes in a “Tropical” flavor.  I’m not sure why the makers of GolferAid thought that “Tropical” was the best flavor for golfers, but as one who does not golf, I suppose I have not much room to speak.  For whatever reason, this drink also contains turmeric which, while I can understand it being included in “Lemon Spice” and “Ginger Ale”, I see no place for it in a flavor like “Tropical”.  I am still very eager to try GolferAid simply because the concept entertains me.

I am honestly excited to try all of these, and will likely be ordering the sample pack sometime soon.  If I do, I’ll probably turn this into a series with a review of each individual drink.  Comment and tell me if you think I should do that or stick to my usual, random, bloggy stuff.

*see the second definition listed https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Chad

To the people I’m hurting, the ones I’m hurt by, and the people who I have broken,

There are so many pieces of myself that wish to become someone else. I am myself, but I have several separate selves inside of me. I am usually surrounded with this idea that my freedom is found in the gut, that one day I’ll get out of the hole I’ve been digging for the last seventeen years and just run across the expanse of the sun, feet catching fire and not caring. I am careful with whom I let see my ruffled feathers; I try to persuade my body to bend with the wind, but my spine chips every time.

I miss so many people that have fallen out of my life. I used to hate the color blue, because it didn’t feel smooth or warm or even real, and now, it’s yellow that I cant stand. Blue is stitches and patches worn in to the side of my jeans, it’s bloodied knuckles for no reason and flower petals, but from the side of the road on the way home. Blue is my detrimental state, and I feel too whole in it these days. I miss yellow, but am glad to have busted out of it. I am, in a sense, broken into different people now. My head spins just to think of all the changes my life has rolled across in the last year and a half.

Seventeen.

I can’t keep from looking back and letting myself rot. I am perpetually eaten away by the people I cannot see unless I close my eyes. I want dark things more than I need to unhurt the hearts I’ve squeezed a little too tightly.

And pretty soon, pretty words aren’t going to be good enough for me. Pretty soon, I’m going to need something to hit hard like concrete and stick past the slimy surface of what I’ve been skating on.  This is the most terrified I have felt in a while, and I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why, but I think I already have a pretty good idea of it.

I can’t look in a mirror without seeing the cracked shell of a halo, cast along my ears. I can’t feel anymore. I can’t see or be or do because I am not whole enough. I am not enough for my situation, or the people around me, or anything like that. Life has no meaning, at least, not when I’m looking for a reason every night to not swerve off the highway and drive until my truck hits an irrevocable future. I can’t talk like this without wanting to break all the mirrors in my house. I already miss you, and I haven’t even tried to leave yet. (I haven’t really been here for a while.)

More love than I thought possible, all the pretty words and pathetic poetry I write for the wrong reasons, all to You (and You, and You too),

Kate